“Is Auntie home yet?
She isn’t?
Oh, thank the Lord! Scarlett, I’m so mortified I could die!
I nearly swooned and, Scarlett, Uncle Peter is threatening to tell Aunt Pitty!”
“Tell what?”
“That I was talking to that—to Miss—Mrs. —” Melanie fanned her hot face with her handkerchief.
“That woman with red hair, named Belle Watling!”
“Why, Melly!” cried Scarlett, so shocked she could only stare.
Belle Watling was the red-haired woman she had seen on the street the first day she came to Atlanta and by now, she was easily the most notorious woman in town.
Many prostitutes had flocked into Atlanta, following the soldiers, but Belle stood out above the rest, due to her flaming hair and the gaudy, overly fashionable dresses she wore.
She was seldom seen on Peachtree Street or in any nice neighborhood, but when she did appear respectable women made haste to cross the street to remove themselves from her vicinity.
And Melanie had been talking with her.
No wonder Uncle Peter was outraged.
“I shall die if Aunt Pitty finds out!
You know she’ll cry and tell everybody in town and I’ll be disgraced,” sobbed Melanie.
“And it wasn’t my fault.
I—I couldn’t run away from her.
It would have been so rude.
Scarlett, I—I felt sorry for her.
Do you think I’m bad for feeling that way?”
But Scarlett was not concerned with the ethics of the matter.
Like most innocent and well-bred young women, she had a devouring curiosity about prostitutes.
“What did she want?
What does she talk like?”
“Oh, she used awful grammar but I could see she was trying so hard to be elegant, poor thing.
I came out of the hospital and Uncle Peter and the carriage weren’t waiting, so I thought I’d walk home.
And when I went by the Emersons’ yard, there she was hiding behind the hedge!
Oh, thank Heaven, the Emersons are in Macon!
And she said,
‘Please, Mrs. Wilkes, do speak a minute with me.’
I don’t know how she knew my name.
I knew I ought to run as hard as I could but—well, Scarlett, she looked so sad and—well, sort of pleading.
And she had on a black dress and black bonnet and no paint and really looked decent but for that red hair.
And before I could answer she said.
‘I know I shouldn’t speak to you but I tried to talk to that old peahen, Mrs. Elsing, and she ran me away from the hospital.”
“Did she really call her a peahen?” said Scarlett pleasedly and laughed.
“Oh, don’t laugh.
It isn’t funny.
It seems that Miss—this woman, wanted to do something for the hospital—can you imagine it?
She offered to nurse every morning and, of course, Mrs. Elsing must have nearly died at the idea and ordered her out of the hospital.
And then she said,
‘I want to do something, too.
Ain’t I a Confedrut, good as you?’
And, Scarlett, I was right touched at her wanting to help.
You know, she can’t be all bad if she wants to help the Cause.
Do you think I’m bad to feel that way?”
“For Heaven’s sake, Melly, who cares if you’re bad?
What else did she say?”
“She said she’d been watching the ladies go by to the hospital and thought I had—a—a kind face and so she stopped me.
She had some money and she wanted me to take it and use it for the hospital and not tell a soul where it came from.